


Left In The Cold

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Casual Sex, Confessions, Crowley Is Not Awake Enough For This, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Just Friends Helping Each Other Out, M/M, Not Casual Sex, Rude Awakening, Sexy Awakening, Sharing Body Heat, hibernation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25761250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Crowley hasn't been seen for a while, and Aziraphale decides to check up on him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 172
Kudos: 957
Collections: Top Crowley Library





	Left In The Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the lovely chamyl for the beta, any mistakes left will be mine, since I added a few lines for clarity. Brief stroke mention, I've seen that warned for before and thought I better mention it in notes, to be safe.

Crowley has been floating in the void for a while. It's a familiar, empty black space of nothing, somewhere underneath the fluid, warm space where he occasionally dreams. The void is where he lets his consciousness settle while he sleeps through the odd unpleasant Winter. It's vast and cold and utterly silent, a place to curl into himself. He's not sure how long it's been, but he's enjoying the peace, he's enjoying the stillness. The world will wake him up again when it's warmer. For now, he's just going to spend the worst of the cold months in a tight little tangle of limbs - or, at least, that’s what he's assuming his body is currently doing. That's how he remembers leaving it.

He doesn't usually process sensations from his body while he's this deep under, but it slowly occurs to him that his face is suddenly strangely warm, a slow-blooming wave of heat spreading outwards from his cheek. He notices it absently, as if from a long way away.

Crowley thinks that someone might have called his name. Which tells him that he should probably open his eyes, find out what's going on, it might be important. But he's not quite ready yet, he's still too cold, too tired, sunk too deep. He tries to stretch without any limbs, and finds even his immaterial body still resistant to the suggestion.

"...Crowley....for....-...up."

The words are muffled and indistinct, but that was definitely his name. The familiar soft roll of it in the angel's voice. Aziraphale needs him to be awake. Aziraphale _needs_ him. Which means Crowley has no choice but to drag himself back to life. Unfortunately, it seems like being awake will currently take a monumental amount of effort.

Ugh.

There's nothing for it, he's going to have to put the work in. His body protests at first, when he forces the shape of him to conform to its interior again. It's frigid and stiff, and it refuses to obey any of his commands, perfectly content to be an empty corporation. He thinks it's probably been in the bed by itself for a few months at least, it's hard to tell, since Crowley has only barely been inhabiting it. Aside from the faint twitches of power that occasionally leak through his vast consciousness, and the odd slither of tongue to test the temperature, it probably hasn't moved for weeks. Crowley insists that it move itself now - he's been wearing it for six thousands years, he always gets his own way in the end. 

His body feels cold and tight when he starts to cram himself properly back into it, when he squeezes into its angles and lines and living skin, piece by piece. It's like putting on clothing you'd left outside overnight.

"Will...please...to me."

Crowley can hear the voice a little better now, somewhere very close to his ears, but he's still negotiating, still taking ownership of bones and blood and skin. It's much less pleasant doing it like this than letting himself thaw out of it naturally. He can't help but wonder if this is how those mammoths that get chiselled out of the ice feel. Though they don't have to go to the trouble of coming back to life afterwards. 

Everything is numb and heavy - until it suddenly isn't. Where there was previously only the sharp coldness of his limbs, pulled and folded in tight to his body, there's now slowly spreading warmth. It's like someone settled him on a hot rock in the sun, or a wave on the ocean, his whole body curving gently around it. The chill starts to very slowly recede, and is quickly replaced by pins and needles everywhere.

Crowley coaxes his sluggish heart to beat faster, because he's going to need it. He hopes Aziraphale appreciates what he does for him. Ugh, corporations can be so fucking finicky sometimes. He drags himself up out of the depths, through the place where he normally sleeps, and out the other side. He forces his lungs to expand, forces one of his eyes to very slowly open.

"Fwah?" He manages, and that feels like an incredible effort that he should get a fucking medal for.

"Oh, thank Heavens," Aziraphale's blurry face is far too close, but his sigh of relief is exceptionally warm. The hands that grasp Crowley's face and gently tilt it up burn pleasantly.

"Whan?" He's not sure that's any more coherent, to be honest.

"Crowley, you scared me to death," Aziraphale accuses, and there's another rush of warm air across his face.

"S'time?" Crowley gets out, sounding like a man who'd recently had his entire throat clogged with sand.

"Almost March," Aziraphale says, sounding exasperated and annoyed, but also horribly relieved. Honestly, you'd think the angel had never been around when he'd napped for Winter before. Which, come to think of it, he should probably have mentioned he was going to do that. "I was worried about you in December but I thought perhaps you'd gone somewhere warm - I know you hate the Winter, and I don't doubt that you've slept through it before, but it's been ten below for the last few weeks. I didn't know exactly how cold you could get before it became physically harmful to you. I came here to make sure, and I found you in your bed, almost frozen solid, no heating to speak of. You were barely breathing and you wouldn't wake up. I panicked, and I did briefly strike you. I'm very sorry."

Crowley makes a curious noise against Aziraphale's smooth shoulder, because he suspects that's what his memory of having an oddly warm cheek had been about.

It also occurs to him, very slowly, that he's been pulled over to lay half on top of Aziraphale, the smooth, solid heat of his skin a burn of delicious pleasure against his own cold body. So, yes, the angel is significantly more naked than Crowley remembers him being the last time he'd seen him. The evidence suggests that Aziraphale may, in fact, have slithered naked into Crowley's bed, and attempted to wake him using his own body heat, like they were living in some sort of dramatic Antarctic rescue adventure. Though, judging by the rasp of cotton against Crowley's thigh, Aziraphale has kept his sensible underwear on. Oh, well then, everyone's virtue is saved.

Normally after a Winter nap Crowley would awkwardly shuffle his way to the shower, to stand in hot water for an hour, and then have a wank to get his blood really properly flowing again. His body seems to think this is a new routine and is preparing accordingly.

"Nyeh," he tells it, scandalised by its audacity. The only thing saving him from utter mortification is the fact that his blood is moving too slowly to currently manage an erection.

Though Crowley's leg is at the moment slip-sliding against Aziraphale's without his permission, back and forth, back and forth, like it can't help itself, and he's not sure he can make it stop. He's fairly certain his body has decided that the most expedient way of warming him up is with body heat and friction - and his brain is still too cold and too sluggish to convince it what a terrible idea that is. Though Aziraphale is either carefully ignoring it, or he doesn't mind.

"W're y'naked?" He can't help but ask. He's pretty sure he already knows but he'd really like to hear Aziraphale justify it.

"Oh, yes, as I said, I panicked," Aziraphale admits quietly, and has the decency to look embarrassed. "I've been reading Shackleton again, and it seemed a very sensible thing to do an hour ago. I know, obviously I should have miracled you some heated blankets or even put you in the bath, but then it seemed like a waste of resources to try an alternate option after this one seemed to be working. I didn't take into account how inappropriate it would be. I was worried about you and I wasn't thinking clearly, I apologise."

"Nr don't 'polgise," Crowley tells him, which was almost three words, and now he can move his head a bit, laying the cold side of his face against Aziraphale's skin with a sigh of pleasure. "S'lovely."

That was a touch more honest that he intended. He thinks he should probably stop trying to talk before his whole brain is awake.

"Y'should - probably - hnr, f'm gonna gretion," he tries. Which he thinks is pretty good, all things considered, but not very helpful at providing information. He tries again, forcing his limbs and his vocal chords into some sort of obedience. "Y'should leave the bed - f'you don't want - I'm gonna get n' erection." There, that was a whole concept that time. His skin is starting to prickle and itch, which means it has blood flowing under it again. Oh good, just enough that he can be obviously embarrassed, that's very fucking helpful.

"Oh, is that - is that normal?" Aziraphale sounds curious, rather than appropriately horrified.

Crowley frowns into his skin, trying to decide if Aziraphale means in general, or after one of his cold naps.

"I mean, yeah, I just - y'know, to get blood flowing." He manages - thinks he manages - a fairly crude hand gesture, though his hand is probably too far away for the angel to see.

"Oh," That's a different sort of 'oh'. That's Aziraphale's pleased 'I am learning things and they fascinate me,' tone of voice. Crowley's glad he could make him happy, he guesses.

"I don't suppose I could -" Aziraphale's quiet for a moment. "If I can be of assistance in the matter of blood flow, then I'm perfectly willing."

Crowley stares at Aziraphale's skin from an inch away and tries very hard not to have a stroke - the brain kind, not the other kind.

He should definitely say no, because there's no better way to fuck up a friendship than having sex, especially when one of you is hopelessly in love and the other is attempting to provide post-hypothermia medical assistance. But Crowley isn't sure he's capable of refusing. He has enough trouble when Aziraphale asks for extra dessert, he's not sure he knows how to say no when it's something he's been quietly hoping for for centuries. That's the thing though, isn't it? It's not something Aziraphale _wants_ , it's something he's offering out of the goodness of his heart, to help Crowley out.

Satan's balls, this is unbearable.

"Aziraphale." Crowley's voice finally sounds firm, sounds present rather than half drunk. He can feel his blood pumping, struggling to keep up with the number of things he's been forced to feel in the last ten minutes. "I'm perfectly capable of - of taking care of myself, don't expect you to -"

Aziraphale shifts ever so slightly, legs sliding apart, Crowley's knee sinks between them, and they fall more naturally together, almost groin to groin. Crowley's perfectly awake cock is now in the perfect position to slide and press against the soft, warm space between Aziraphale's legs. If it hadn't been hard already that would have pretty much done it. He'd originally assumed that Aziraphale was going without an effort, but he'd caught a faint taste of him when his tongue shifted to something a touch more human. The musky-sweet tang that tells him exactly what's underneath the sensible underwear. Which isn't helping at all. Because now he's thinking about how easy it would be. No miracles, no searching for lube, no sliding about in the bed trying to make sure no one was falling off. How good he would feel around him. How many times has he thought about being inside Aziraphale? How is he supposed to not think about it now?

"Ngk."

But Aziraphale is offering it so casually, as if it's something they do all the time, and not something Crowley has been thinking about for six thousand years. Aziraphale is offering it like it means nothing to him. As if he'd heard the term 'friends with benefits' and thinks it sounds like a smashing idea. It's probably the best Crowley could have hoped for, but that doesn't make it any less devastating.

He still knows that if he doesn't say yes to the offer he'll hate himself - but if he does say yes, he'll probably hate himself more. He's hating himself either way. He guesses Aziraphale gets the deciding vote.

"You really want to do that, you're ok with us doing that?" Crowley says, because he can be casual too, look how casual he sounds.

"It's something we've never done," Aziraphale says, after a moment, and his voice is oddly careful, as if he's measuring each word out before he says it. "Aren't you at least a little bit curious?"

Curious?! Fucking _curious_? Crowley doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, but his numb fingers are already sliding up Aziraphale's warm body, having apparently decided that they'll take this unexpected permission to touch while Crowley is still trying to cope with having everything he's ever wanted thrown in his face.

Aziraphale seems to be taking the spread of Crowley's cold fingers on his skin as tentative agreement. He gives a little sigh.

"I confess that I've been curious," he admits. "About what it would be like."

Crowley stretches upwards, rather than letting himself think about that, skin sliding against the angel's, and he can feel his whole body trying to shake itself back to life just to feel it. When he might never get the chance to do this again? He pauses once he's level with Aziraphale's face, and this is by far the closest they've ever been, the most they've ever touched. Aziraphale exhales all at once, as if he's surprised to find Crowley there, eyes drifting to his mouth. 

Crowley decides that he can't wait for Aziraphale to move, to touch him, to pull him in or push him away. He doesn't have the willpower any more. He lets himself sink down, and covers Aziraphale's mouth with his own, in one slow press. It's close-mouthed for a few seconds, and then they both open to each other, and then they're kissing, they're kissing in Crowley's sheets and Aziraphale's warm hands are suddenly on his face, tilting it up, opening for Crowley's not entirely coordinated tongue, and it seems deeply unfair that he's been given this unexpected chance to give Aziraphale everything he's capable of while his body is still sluggishly dragging its way back to life.

Aziraphale breaks away first, says his name in an entirely new way, wobbly and overwhelmed, and just a touch urgent.

Crowley grunts agreement, realises that's unhelpful, and forces his mouth to choke out words.

"You ok still, with this, I mean, you still want to, with me?" 

Do you still want me? 

Aziraphale doesn't answer, just sighs like he's being stupid and tugs on Crowley's waist. Then strong angel fingers are digging into his silky pyjama bottoms, skating briefly and shockingly over the bare curve on his arse, and shoving them down his legs. A moment later Aziraphale inserts a foot between his ankles and removes the trousers entirely, as if he's intent on proving it. It's stupidly arousing and Crowley can't hold the desperate hiss and the even more desperate grind of his hips.

"Yes, exactly, that," Aziraphale says, in a tone of voice that's far too familiar, it's the one he uses when he's seen something that takes his fancy on a menu, or in a shop window, and has absolute faith that Crowley will get it for him. That he will give it to him.

"Fuck." Crowley feels that in his gut, because Aziraphale can't just demand things like that. In that voice that makes Crowley need to do things for him. He's not Pavlov's dog, he's bloody not. But half his brain hasn’t finished thawing, probably the half that's in charge of self-preservation and restraint, because he catches Aziraphale's waist and pulls him in. His fingers tuck into the sides of his sensible underwear, slide them down hips and thighs, knees, calves, before tugging them over the angel's feet and tossing them aside. Then he's moving Aziraphale's legs up and apart with hissing, delirious impatience, watching his soft, full labia spread slowly, exposing the flushed pink inside of his vulva, which is shining a little with his own needy arousal.

Crowley's whole body clenches with want, and he groans and curves down instinctively, shouldering his way between Aziraphale's legs, hands pushing his thighs wide. Aziraphale gives a low, gasping moan when Crowley's mouth opens on him, tongue moving up through the heat of him in one indulgent slide.

" _Crowley_!" Aziraphale's hands scrabble for a handhold behind him, but there's nowhere on the headboard to grip. He just ends up flattening his hand on the wall and pushing down onto Crowley's mouth.

Crowley, who's allowed to be blasphemous, it's in his fucking job description, _worships_ him. He drags the taste of him into his mouth with a shudder of bliss, then works him slowly through every twitch and gasp and thready moan. Revelling in every tight squeeze of thighs around his head as he learns all the things the angel likes. Which turns out to be long trailing slides and slow thrusts followed by a pull at the reddened peak of his clit, rolling around it and sucking it gently, before sliding back down to tongue him open. He hums whenever Aziraphale gives a little jerk of delight, whenever he moans his name, toes dragging in the sheets.

His beautiful, greedy, demanding angel.

Crowley doesn't want to be anywhere else, he wants to be the reason Aziraphale is making those sounds, the reason there are strong fingers fisting - tearing - the sheets, and heavy hips working against his mouth and chin.

The angel trembles around him as he eats him out, thighs shifting restlessly against his shoulders and head, one hand drops to his hair, fingers clenching in forgetful bursts, and there's a long, low moaning that doesn't stop. It's somewhere close to music and Crowley has to add a hand, two fingers smearing Aziraphale's slick wetness along their length, before starting a slow, teasing circle at the entrance to his cunt.

There's a burst of air and something gets kicked off the bed, and then Aziraphale has both hands in his hair, thighs pulling up.

"Crowley, _Crowley_." His voice is wrecked, thin and pleading and Crowley spares a moment to tip his head, to look up at him, at the beautiful, pale stretch of the angel's naked body. Which leaves him groaning want against the flushed, sensitive rise of Aziraphale's clit, because he shouldn’t get to have this, shouldn't be allowed to do this to his angel. He never thought he would - _he didn't deserve it_. He carefully slides his circling fingers inside him, where Aziraphale is soaking, rocks them gently in and out, and the angel clenches down on them and gives a long shudder of delight.

"Oh, fuck -" Aziraphale comes apart in pieces, he stops breathing entirely, thighs tensing and drawing together. He presses himself harder, tighter into Crowley's mouth, all sudden slickness and heat. Crowley works him gently through it, and his tongue only slows to a stop when Aziraphale makes a helpless, oversensitive noise, and presses toes to his hips, pushing weakly.

After a moment, breath rasping in his throat, the angel lets his legs fall open.

"Crowley, if I don't have you inside me in the next ten seconds," he says hoarsely. "I shall be cross."

Crowley can't help the startled burst of surprised laughter, feeling that demand in his bones, but then he's hurriedly stretching out of his curve and sliding up the bed, feeling Aziraphale's thighs spread open around him, and he can't help a soft moan of appreciation when that makes his glistening cunt so deliciously obvious, so demanding. The thought that Aziraphale wants him to - that he's allowed, that he's _needed_ right there.

"Angel, you have no idea what you do to me," he says desperately, too honest, far too honest.

"I'm rather hoping you'd show me," Aziraphale murmurs. He looks almost too good to be real, laid out in a way Crowley never dared to imagine, stretched out nude and exposed on his bed, a warm flush on his skin, urging Crowley to have him, the taste of his skin and his sex still on Crowley's tongue.

It would take a stronger being than him to refuse.

He wraps a hand around the base of his cock, lets the head drag where Aziraphale is still wet from his mouth, before he's nudging it down and in, hips following until that first press becomes an easy push inside, as Aziraphale stretches open around him and the angel makes a strangled noise of satisfaction. Which is so gloriously overwhelming that Crowley can do nothing but stay deep inside him without moving for a long, blissful moment.

Aziraphale pulls him down, presses his fingers into the scales spreading along Crowley's spine and gives a shivery moan of pleasure. Crowley's a little astounded by both the dig of fingers and that noise of appreciation, and can do nothing but push deeper in a long roll of hips. He can do this, he can make it good, he can give Aziraphale that much at least. He slips his fingers down, where he's moving inside the angel in firm, desperate pushes, and lets them circle and drag around the both of them, until he's wet enough to set them against the angel's swollen clit and start slow, gentle movements.

Aziraphale gives a shuddering gasp, legs twitching like he's trying to resist.

"Crowley, I can't - you'll make me -"

"I want to feel you come again," Crowley tells him. He watches the angel's mouth fall open at the request, watches him pull in a breath and tip his head back. Then he's lifting his hips and pressing into it, into the dual sensations of Crowley's cock sliding into him and his fingers rolling and pressing into his clit. It doesn't take long, Aziraphale quiet, breathless noises go lower, more demanding, then break on a groan of pleasure. His legs pull in, to grasp Crowley tightly while he shakes his way through it, and Crowley slows to watch.

"Keep going," Aziraphale insists, in a smoky, breathless tone of voice. "I want to watch you too, please."

Crowley's nothing if not obedient, easing Aziraphale's legs open again, watching his cock slide in and then draw free, wet with Aziraphale's slick, which is gloriously obscene and beautiful. Coming is not going to be a problem, he's never had trouble finding Aziraphale arousing. And he's currently more awake than he's ever been in his whole fucking life. He dips, kisses the angel's mouth open, murmurs his name, hips working between Aziraphale's legs, and it's all so real, so visceral and physical and human. He finds himself sinking in deep, once, twice, three times, before his own orgasm is wrenched out of him, insides uncoiling, dizzy and stupid with bliss.

When he can think again he finds himself still kissing Aziraphale, fiercely, messily, but the angel isn't protesting, he's kissing back with a lazy sort of indulgence. His hands are almost painfully tight on Crowley's waist and neck, as if he thinks Crowley might leave him now that he's done, like he doesn't want to let go. But then he does, and Crowley can't think of any excuse to keep them together, not one. So he slides out, soft cock leaving a smear of wetness on the sheet. Then he's moving sideways, letting himself collapse next to Aziraphale, on the other side of the bed. They're pressed tightly together at arm, hip and thigh, but Crowley finds himself incapable of moving any further.

"So," Crowley says uncertainly. "That happened."

"Yes." Aziraphale's voice is strangely thin, papery. "I just thought - well we've been friends for long enough that it wouldn't make a difference if we made - if we had sex." The angel clears his throat. "If we had sex," he says, more firmly. "Friends do that sometimes, I'm led to understand."

There's a forced casualness to his voice. But Crowley, who isn't a complete fucking idiot, stares at the ceiling and replays that slip of the tongue enough times to make him brave.

"Or we could be something else," he says, through a dry throat. "If you wanted us to be."

Aziraphale's quiet for a long, agonizing minute, Crowley can hear his fingers shifting against the sheets, as if they desperately want to tangle and squeeze something. Crowley knows all his tells.

"It shouldn't always be about what I want," Aziraphale says, stiffly, like something inside him is quietly devastated.

And, oh, the angel has gotten it so wrong, how could he have gotten it so wrong? Crowley finds Aziraphale's hand in the sheets, scratching helplessly. He lays his own over it, feels it go still before carefully threading their fingers together.

"I've never had to ask for what I want," Crowley confesses. "You've always given it to me, angel."

Aziraphale is quiet next to him for long enough that he starts to worry. He's never been very good at this, he was never meant to be. But eventually Aziraphale's grip tightens.

"Do you?" he asks quietly.

"Yes," Crowley says immediately. "But I didn't think you -"

"I do," Aziraphale says, before he can finish.

"Right then, good," Crowley hears himself say, like the angel hasn't just upended his entire world. "That's...that's good."

There's the faintest laugh from the other side of the bed.

"Is it really that easy?" Aziraphale asks.

"Considering how everything else has gone for us lately, I think it's only fair - universe owes us one don't you think?"

Aziraphale hums agreement, then reaches down to retrieve the sheet, pulls it up over the both of them, before rolling his way into Crowley's body with a quiet noise. Crowley lifts an arm so Aziraphale can slip underneath it, then curls it round him, pulling him in tight and burying his face in his candyfloss hair.

"I've never slept before," Aziraphale says quietly. "But this is very pleasant."

Crowley isn't sure whether he's going to fall asleep or not. He'd quite like to simply exist in this moment for a year or two, until it sinks in properly.

"Wake me up if you leave," he says though, just to be safe.

"Oh, my dear, I don't think I'll find a reason to do that," Aziraphale reassures him.


End file.
